Like the First Breath, in Reverse
by bittergrapes
Summary: "You know, I had great plans for us." John Watson's days are winding down, and Sherlock Holmes is determined to let him be the hero for once.     WARNINGS: Character death      Just so everyone is clear, this story is COMPLETE and won't be added to.
1. Chapter 1

The first time John fell down the stairs, Sherlock disregarded it. They'd been chasing traces of Moriarty all the way across central London since early morning, and despite his normal superhuman tendencies, Sherlock had to admit he was tired. He could only imagine how the army doctor was feeling, what with his normal desires for sleep and food. As he heard the thump that he could easily deduce as a middle-aged male of average height and weight falling down the stairs, he called out a terse "John?" and received a grunt in reply. It was enough. He turned back to his laptop. They did not speak of the incident, though Sherlock noticed that John seemed to clutch at the banister a little tighter than before when he went up the stairs, and several nights that week he merely dozed on the couch.

The second time, a week later, could not be ignored. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, plucking absently at the violin, when a series of staccato thumps rang throughout the living room. Sherlock correctly recognized that the sound of the thumps indicated several sharp raps to the skull, and he leapt up, dashing to the foot of the stairs to assess the damage to his flatmate.

"John?" he asked cautiously, catching the doctor's wrist for a pulse. "John, can you hear me? I need you to speak up if you can hear me."

_What is wrong with him? And why didn't I notice? _Sherlock wondered as he squeezed the limp hand of his assistant, overwhelmed by the weight of his relief when the hand squeezed weakly back.

"Sherlock?" John asked, his voice faint, as if he were thousands of miles away. "Did I fall again?"

"That looks to be the case," Sherlock replied, his voice unusually gentle. "Should I call for an ambulance or will a sack of peas do? I'm sure we have some sort of frozen vegetable. If not I can pop one of the arms I'm working on in the freeze-"

"Sherlock." John's voice had regained its comfortingly steady tone. "We need to talk."

"Well, obviously. I was in the middle of a particularly intense thought when you fell down an entire flight of stairs and broke my concentration," the detective snapped, holding his hand out for John to grasp. He paused. "What has gotten into you? Sudden gait ataxia and" he leaned close to sniff John's breath, "several bouts of vomiting poorly masked by breath mints suggesting you've been suffering from severe nausea – I'm assuming these were after the headaches you've complained about – as well as," and here he raised John's left eyelid to look carefully at his eye, which gave an involuntary jerk, "apparent nystagmus and papilladema –"

Sherlock's eyes suddenly widened, his mouth dropping open, as John regarded him quietly. "No – it can't – John, no, that's impossible, not – "

"Yes, me, Sherlock," John replied, struggling to form crisp consonants.

"But the life expectancy is less than twelve months –"

"And I've known for about a month now."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock snarled, pulling the army doctor up from the floor in one swift movement, nearly pulling them both off-balance.

John chuckled; Sherlock suddenly realized that his voice sounded slurred, yet another symptom he had failed to notice because of his rapt attention to his work. "It's kind of a hard thing to bring up. There's no set guidelines for telling your colleague –"

"Your _friend_," Sherlock corrected, his eyes averted.

"- that you have a brain stem glioma. Should I have just slipped that in when I asked you what you wanted for dinner some day? 'Sherlock, Chinese or Angelo's, and oh by the way I'm going to be dead in less than a year'?"

"Well, I would have liked some warning," Sherlock replied stiffly. John noticed tiredly that the other man had not moved away, or even released his grip on John's jumper.

"And now you have it. Can we discuss this later? It's late."

"John, I – "

"I get it. I was planning on admitting myself to an assisted-living facility as soon as I could figure out a way to afford it. I was just waiting for the symptoms to get bad enough to warrant it." The doctor's voice sounded colder, colder than Sherlock had ever heard it, even after hearing him rage against criminals and hiss at murderers. The tone, plainly, terrified Sherlock.

"Don't talk like that. You're not going anywhere. I'm going to take care of you."  
>"What? No. Sherlock, you can't even keep a houseplant, much less someone who is very close to losing control of all his bodily functions." John was tiring; his voice was more slurred than before, his brow furrowed in the effort of concentration. Sherlock noted with a stab of guilt that he'd never before been able to notice when John was tired. Apparently, it took the realization that their time together was much, much shorter than either intended to recognize just how much of a mystery John remained. And as much as Sherlock loved a mystery, this was not the kind he wanted to solve.<p>

"John." He hoped his voice was as firm and commanding as he didn't feel at the moment. "You are going to remain here. I am going to stop taking cases unless they are of exceptional interest. And I will take care of you. Consider it a … gift for your service. I will ensure that you are in the least amount of pain possible for the shortest amount of time, and that your final months are as pleasant as I can manage. Understood?" He squeezed the doctor's hand, hoping to impart some sense of kindness and empathy by the touch, knowing that his sterile, clinical voice could not convey the firestorm raging in his heart.

The gesture, apparently, didn't go through. "So this is like the gold watch they give a banker when they retire?" John spat. "Shoving me off this mortal coil with a pat on the back? I don't need your pity, Sherlock."

"This isn't pity," Holmes growled. "This is a socially ignorant but intellectually brilliant man doing his best to show his friend that he cares, and that he will remain by his side for as long as he is needed, regardless of what that may do to his sanity, pocketbook, or reputation."

John looked nonplussed, his eyelids sagging slightly as he looked up at the taller man. "So… you do care?"

Sherlock couldn't help himself; he laughed, a short bark more than a true chortle. "Your deduction skills are not at their finest tonight, John."

The army doctor looked away. "They're at their finest they will ever be. This is the downhill, Sherlock."

The consulting detective stilled, his face impassive but his eyes filmed over with a fine veneer of liquid. "Right then. Do you need help up the stairs?"

"That's very kind of you."

"Actually, disregard that. You can sleep in my bed. I'll take yours."

"… are you sure?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"No weird experiments lying around in the covers?"

"Of course not." He paused. "Actually, let me check." Ducking into his room, Sherlock returned moments later carrying a leg. "All yours."

"Thanks," John replied quietly. "Really."

"It's no matter," Sherlock responded, biting his lip. He watched John pad slowly into his room, closing the door carefully behind him, and then he ran up to what was formerly John's abode, not trusting himself to hold it together for much longer.

His assumption proved correct, and he'd barely passed the threshold of the room before the dam burst open and tears poured down his face. Sherlock landed squarely in the middle of the bed, holding his legs to his chest and rocking back and forth, sobbing into his knees. He couldn't remember a time in his life where he had been so emotionally invested in the health and safety of another person – in fact, he realized, he probably would never be in such a position again. Surely there was not another John in the universe, a constant calming force who could defend him from both enemies and himself, a steadfast companion with the nerves of a soldier and the heart of a doctor. And if such a person existed, Sherlock reasoned, he'd never want to meet him, because then he would be left with nothing, instead of only half a heart.

There was only one thing to do in this situation, he decided: admit his weakness to the only human being other than John who would possibly care. With shaking fingers, he pressed the number into his phone and clutched the device to his ear, still weeping.

When the call was picked up, Sherlock lost it all over again.

"Mycroft," the great detective sobbed. "John."


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft had never heard his brother demonstrate such … _humanity_. Sure, he had been ruffled by death before, upset by its sudden, unexplainable presence in the lives of innocent people, but never rattled, never unhinged. Listening to his brother sob unintelligibly into the receiver, he didn't know whether to bless or curse the quiet, unassuming doctor who had so completely taken Sherlock's heart.

"Sherlock … Sherry," Mycroft commanded, using the nickname his brother had used as a child. "You need to calm down and explain what I can do to assist you both."

"I _can't_ calm down," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth. "Mycroft, I've never felt in such a manner before. This is an entirely new experience for me. I feel as if the heart has been ripped out of me – as if I were empty inside, weightless. I can't think. This is not anything I thought I would ever feel for another human being, brilliant though this one may be."

Mycroft bit his tongue. He had never heard the cynical, aloof detective use the term 'brilliant' to describe anyone other than himself. 'Clever', yes, on occasion, 'fantastic' when it was warranted, but never 'brilliant', never for anyone as mundane as the retired army surgeon. But then again, Mycroft reasoned, while he respected John, he had never considered him anything more than a tag-along: useful and unfailingly loyal, but not _brilliant_. He had underestimated the strength of the relationship between his brother and Watson: this much was becoming clear.

Sherlock's hiccups and wracking sobs on the other end of the line had quieted to deep, shuddering breaths. Mycroft could only imagine what his brother was thinking, what dismal scenarios were running through his head, and he decided to head the dark thoughts off at the pass.

"Sherlock. What can I do to make this … situation … easier to endure?"

"Could you explain to Scotland Yard why we won't be taking cases? I don't think I would be able to tell them myself."

Mycroft idly noted the use of _we_. "Of course. I'm assuming DI Lestrade will be the first one I should tell?"

"Yes. I want you to go through John's medical records and report to me what the exact prognosis was – I want to know how much time we will have before … you know."

_Suddenly so shy about death, Sherry? _the elder Holmes noted with chagrin. The great consulting detective, the only in the world, who had barged into the grisliest of murder scenes without batting an eye, suddenly incapable of articulating his flatmate's impending mortality. And there was that _we_ again, hovering like a moth in the middle of Sherlock's stuttered directions. "Not a problem. And, being as Moriarty is still very much on the loose, I will be raising your surveillance level to 2 and posting extra security around 221B Baker Street, in the hopes that this will deter an attack while you are so … vulnerable. Is this acceptable?"

"Thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock replied tersely. The elder brother raised an eyebrow; this was the first time in nearly seven years that Sherlock had actually thanked Mycroft for his constant protection. Watson clearly had a deeper impact than he realized.

Their conversation concluded, Sherlock hung up with a click, tossing his phone onto the bed and running his hand through his mess of curls. He was exhausted, he realized: every muscle, every bone seemed to scream out for rest, but his mind was still racing along like a cab on a high-speed chase. Each fibre of his being hummed with both fatigue and concern for the man lying in bed a floor beneath him.

This was becoming a night of firsts, Sherlock realized with irritable consideration: the first time he felt truly terrified for another person's safety and mortality, the first time he had thanked Mycroft in seven years … the first time he felt the burning, undeniable urge to wrap someone up in his arms and hold them close, as if to protect him from the inevitable. The first two firsts had been accomplished, and Sherlock had a feeling the third was about to happen.

Padding silently down the stairs, Sherlock listened carefully for the sound of John's sleep-breathing, and heard nothing. Panicked, he flew into the room. "John?"

"Mmm?"

Relief poured through him. "I was wondering if you would like … company while you slept. Brain stem gliomas can cause seizures, and it would be logical to have someone nearby should you hurt yourself while seizing."

Sherlock could practically hear John grin. His voice sounded steadier than it had earlier as he teased, "Are you asking to sleep with me?"

He attempted his regular stiff demeanor and found the cold mannerisms simply wouldn't come. "It's for your own benefit," he replied.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you're looking forward to it."

"My feelings on the matter are irrelevant."

John's voice suddenly sounded ten times smaller. "I don't want to be alone anymore, Sherlock."

"You won't be." Carefully, Sherlock slid underneath the blankets, groping toward John in the dark. The doctor complied, scooting nearer to the taller man.

Sherlock slipped his arms around the exhausted man, resting his chin on the top of John's mess of silver hair. He realized with a start that this felt so comforting, so natural: why hadn't he considered the soothing nature of sleeping next to a man he cared about before? Had it really never crossed his mind, or had he simply buried the idea under the excruciatingly precise details of his work?

Perhaps there had simply not been enough room in his brain for both human affection and clinical detachment; one of them had to give, and, being the so-called sociopath he was, Sherlock's subconscious had chosen to sacrifice social awareness. Now that his work had concluded for the time being – _until John's demise_, Sherlock remembered with a wince – there was time for snuggling, and petting another human's hair, and all the tiny, insignificant comforts he had denied himself for so long.

He had considered that lying with John would be uncomfortable or awkward, especially given the deteriorating state of John's physical health. He had not expected, however, that it seem as if nothing had been right before this night, as if he'd been missing a part of himself that now, through the simple gesture of lying side by side with the one he cared about, had been reunited with him. For the second time that night he recognized that he had never truly appreciated John's worth until the man was slipping away from him in degrees.

Feeling John's breathing deepen into the twilight between wakefulness and sleep, Sherlock ran his fingers gently over the contours of the shorter man's face, feeling the furrows caused by years of hard work and concentration, the tiny pits of miniscule scars and injuries. He wondered the story behind each one – _was this from a spray of shrapnel from Afghanistan, or from a bug bite?_ - and tried, unsuccessfully, to tell John's life story from the texture of his skin. His fingers reached down, lower, to the soft flesh of the doctor's neck, smooth like the folds of a well-worn flannel shirt.

He had reached as far as John's left collarbone when a warm hand encompassed his own, stilling the fingers.

"Shut up," John whispered.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

Sherlock smiled sadly, realizing that he had said the same thing to Lestrade on the first case that he and John had shared, the case that John had so fancifully named _A Study in Pink_. His eyes stung at the memory, and for the second time that night he felt like crying. But for John's sake – for the sake of the brilliant, beautiful, bold, brave doctor who was dying by inches in his arms – he refrained.

"Get some sleep, soldier," he whispered back, pressing his lips to the side of John's temple.


	3. Chapter 3

Late the next morning, there was a knock at the door while Sherlock cut up John's French toast. While John's palsy had not yet grown severe enough to warrant the attention, the detective insisted it was best to get into the habit so that by the time Watson was no longer capable of cutting his own food, the ritual had become second nature. John didn't argue, merely sat quietly and watched as Sherlock's delicate wrists flicked back and forth rhythmically, the knife and fork skating across the plate and slicing the toast into tiny pieces.

"Come in!" Sherlock shouted, expecting Mrs. Hudson to come bursting in, fussing about the furniture and probably carrying a tray of biscuits. Instead, the door opened quietly, closing with a click, and Sherlock could hear the scuff of heavy work boots thudding softly across the floor. Though he was around the corner from the door, he knew immediately who the visitor was.

"Lestrade," he said shortly, straightening and setting the knife and fork down on the napkin. John patted his hand as the detective walked away, and he turned around, a rare, soft smile gracing his features. "Be right back," he said, and John nodded, carefully picking up the fork, as if it would bite him.

"Morning, Sherlock," Lestrade said politely, taking in the man's slightly disheveled appearance. Clearly Holmes was not taking the news of his colleague's illness well, which surprised Lestrade. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't throw a sick man out on the street – he wasn't that much of a sociopath – but to be clearly unnerved and upset? This was a strange turn of events. He set the opaque plastic box he was carrying down onto the floor and held his hand out, a gesture that the consulting detective ignored entirely.

"I suppose there is a reason for this house visit?" Sherlock remarked bitterly. "Another drugs bust, perhaps? String of mysterious apparent suicides, which your force is too dull to recognize for what they are?"

"No, no," Lestrade interjected, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, which the consulting detective irritably pushed off. "Your brother…"

"Mycroft," Sherlock spat.

"Yes, Mycroft. He called me this morning to tell me about John." Lestrade looked up to see John in the kitchen, eating quietly. Catching the man's eye, he gave a small wave, which John returned with a nod. "I'm sorry to hear about it. It's very unfortunate."

"Unfortunate?" Sherlock queried, his eyes sharp. "_Unfortunate_? This is more than unfortunate, Grimwauld." The inspector winced at the use of his first name. "If I were inclined to theatrics, I would say this is a tragedy."

"I know. Trust me, everyone at the station is upset too," Lestrade replied, keeping his voice quiet so John couldn't hear. "We all care about him just as much as you do."

"Impossible," the taller man replied dismissively.

"Well, think what you want, Sherlock."

"I'm merely being logical. All of you know him as a colleague or an acquaintance, assistant to the sociopathic detective you are forced to rely on. You don't know him as a flatmate, a friend or a… " Sherlock choked slightly. _I could still have my secrets_, he reasoned. "trusted confidante. To you and the rest of the force, he is merely an occasional intrusion to your secretive little clique. But to me, Grimwauld, he is everything."

Lestrade looked bemused, then cleared his throat. "Right. Well, your brother –"

"_Mycroft_," Sherlock supplied again, sullenly. "Truly, Lestrade, you have no attention for detail."

"Mycroft. He told me that you weren't going to be taking on any cases until…"

"Until what, Grimwauld? Go on."

"Until John passes away." Again he caught John's eye, and the doctor looked away, devoting his attention to his breakfast. "But I know you-"

"You think you know me," Sherlock corrected. "You know the persona I reveal to the world. But truly, you cannot know a person, inside and out, unless you are that person. This is why detective work is so difficult, because motives are generally unique to each person, though there are universal motivators that can be relied upon to give a general idea of the thought process of an individual. However-"

"Sherlock," John interjected from the other room. "Mind your tangents."

The detective turned to his flatmate, offering again that soft smile. "Right."

Lestrade cleared his throat once more, looking slightly unnerved. "Anyway, I know you get bored easily."

"Tell me about it," John muttered, his mouth full of toast.

"So, I broke every possible code and rule in the handbook, and I brought you all of the case files and evidence that we have on Moriarty, including everything from the cabbie murders, the Black Lotus Tong case, and the serial bombings." He nudged the box with his boot, and Sherlock bent to pick it up, opening it eagerly. "You can just give me a ring and let me know if you deduce anything, or I can stop by to talk about it. Your choice."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied shortly, his eyes averted.

"And Sherlock… "

"Yes?"

"Look at me." Sherlock refused to meet the inspector's eyes. "Don't be stubborn. Look at me."

The detective did so reluctantly, his clear eyes meeting Lestrade's chocolate ones.

"Take care of yourself. And him too. I know this is tough," he said gently.

Sherlock leaned in then, taking Lestrade fiercely by the collar. He put his face nearly to the inspector's ear and growled, "Tell me how I am supposed to deal with losing him."

"I can't answer that for you," Lestrade replied, nearly whispering. "But I can tell you that it never really gets easier, when they're gone. It just hurts worse. So cherish this time, Sherlock. Don't fritter it running after criminals. We can take care of London while you take care of him."

"I doubt that," Sherlock said, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice.

"I promise. So just spend this with him. Take him out for some dinners at Angelo's. Watch some bad telly. Maybe snuggle a little." The detective stiffened at that, and Lestrade rushed to add, "and that's okay - no judgment here. We've all thought you were on together for months now. But that doesn't matter. Just be kind to him. Make this time something good."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he replied.

Lestrade nodded, and Sherlock released him. Both men brushed themselves off and stepped away from each other, Sherlock to open the box of evidence, Lestrade to stride into the kitchen.

He clapped a hand on John's back, and the doctor looked up at him with a slightly helpless expression in his eyes. "Hullo, John."

"Inspector."

In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, Lestrade swooped down to enfold John in a tight hug. "We'll miss you," he said quietly.

"I will miss you all as well. Let Sally and Anderson and the rest know I'll miss them," John said. Unlike his companion, he'd never harbored the same apparent hatred of the police force; yes, sometimes resentment or impatience at their meddling and bureaucracy, but he knew they were good people doing their best. _If only Sherlock could see that way_, he mused with a smile.

Lestrade patted his back one more time, and John looked up at him again. "Lestrade?"

"Yes, John?"

"Take care of Sherlock for me, when I'm … Don't let him get too lost."

"Of course."

"Make sure he eats every once in a while."

Lestrade grinned broadly. "I'm not a nanny, Watson. Not his mother either."

"No," John conceded, "But after me and Mycroft, you're the closest thing he has to a friend."

"Isn't that a scary thought."

"Take care, Lestrade."

"And you, John, as well."

With the inspector out of the house, Sherlock sat back down opposite John, watching him carefully as he finished the toast. "Any palsy, difficulty swallowing?"

John chewed the last piece and wiped his mouth, heedful of the tremors offsetting the motion. "Not yet."

"Good."

They sat like that for a few minutes, enveloped in the kind of silence that comes when two people are trying their hardest to cherish a mundane moment before their lives are destroyed. John looked up at Sherlock, seeing his own fear and uncertainty reflected in the glasz eyes that met his own. Neither man wanted to admit the hurricane of emotion ripping through their very core; but in looking at each other, in seeing those emotions laid bare in their expressions, it seemed that words weren't necessary.

John pushed his plate away and wiped at his fingers slowly and deliberately with a crumpled napkin. When all the syrup had been deposited on the napkin, he reached his hand out, meeting Sherlock's. The detective looked at him, then down at their hands, and squeezed slightly, feeling a flood of warmth overtake him. He smiled slightly. It was such a simple gesture, but coming from the man he had grown to care about more than himself – the man who death would soon take from him forever – it meant more than any declaration of affection, any accomplishment or achievement. It meant the world to him, though he would never admit it.

"Sherlock?"

He pulled his eyes away from their clasped hands, up to John's face. He noted the deep-set lines of exhaustion and pain, and felt a stab of guilt and pain once more. _Is this what empathy feels like?_ He wondered. _I hate it._

"Yes, John?"

Watson smiled quietly, squeezing a little tighter. "We need to talk about Moriarty."


	4. Chapter 4

Two months had passed since John had informed Sherlock of his diagnosis. Moriarty, apparently, had other things to attend to, for they had been left in relative peace other than the stream of well-wishers, friends, colleagues, Army buddies, and acquaintances who regularly knocked on the door of 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had begun to help with the washing and general household maintenance, since cleanliness was not Sherlock's area of expertise and John's fine motor skills had degraded to the point where washing cups or scrubbing counters was nearly impossible.

His command over speech had begun to wane as well, to the point where Sherlock was needed to translate Watson's 'John-speak', as the detective affectionately called it, into coherent English. He found he was surprisingly suited to the skill, capable of deducing John's intentions through the subtlest nod, the slightest tightening of the mouth. Sherlock had to wonder whether this was because of his natural attention to detail or because of his intense and unexplainable devotion to the doctor – the bond he had not truly appreciated until John's time was nearly up.

Their days were mostly quiet: no running about London, no chasing down bad guys or solving murders. Sherlock still devoted at least two hours a day to looking over the Moriarty cases and deducing what he could, sending regular emails to Lestrade and meeting with him in person, but otherwise he had kept his promise of refraining from cases. On occasion they would go out into the city that both loved so dearly: people-watching at Trafalgar Square, Sherlock showing off his eerily accurate deduction skills on random passerby; dining at Angelo's, where the owner would personally cut up John's food into manageable pieces; sitting beside the river and watching the dirty water flow by.

And the snuggling. Lestrade had not been far from the truth when he hinted at the physical relationship between the two, though it remained innocent as far as sexual relations went. They lay together for hours each night, Sherlock running his fingers down the planes of John's face as if he were a rare gem, or a crime scene he was investigating by touch alone. John would move into the touch and close his eyes, humming softly, and he would rest a trembling hand on Sherlock's waist, where it would tighten reflexively as he fell asleep.

Words were almost never necessary; John lacked the strength to speak with any clarity, and Sherlock lacked the bravery to speak what was etched in his heart. Sometimes he would whisper snatches of poetry to the dozing doctor; sometimes he would pour his emotions out in French, knowing the language would keep his secret. But mostly there was silence, punctuated only by their breaths and the contented rumble of John's sleepy humming.

They rarely walked anywhere, too afraid that it would tire John and sap him of his remaining strength, and so Sherlock pestered Mycroft into buying him a treadmill, where he would run for hours after John had slipped into sleep in front of the chattering telly, running miles and miles while he pondered the benevolent chances that had brought him and the gentle doctor together, and the cruel twists of fate that were about to tear them apart. Over and over he concocted scenarios where he had never met John, had never moved in with him or taken him on as his friend and confidante, and he found each one more dull and lackluster and awful than the last.

It was necessary, Sherlock concluded, that he meet the great man he was honored to call a friend and partner, in order for him to learn how to feel. Before he had been a shell of a human, a machine stitched together with flesh and bone; now he felt each day press down upon him, robbing him of his breath because he knew that he may wake up and find John already gone.

They both knew the day was coming; John seemed lighter each day, as if a bit of essence was leaking out with each exhale, and his symptoms were worsening. Headaches, which left him retching miserably for hours, were becoming more and more common; Sherlock would crouch beside him, rubbing his back soothingly as he vomited more stomach acid than food. His appetite was all but absent, as he found it difficult to swallow anything heavier than water. Sherlock often ended up carrying him or wheeling him about in the wheelchair he had demanded from Mycroft, as John's gait had worsened to the point where he stumbled even when standing still.

But still the doctor never complained, only endured as quietly and bravely as he could. Sometimes Sherlock could see the immense pain looming behind his eyes, the terror that crept in when he thought the detective wasn't looking. He knew that this purgatory between life and dying was stripping John bare of any happiness or contentment, and that thought ate at him daily. They had already agreed on how John would end his life, had set it up with a carefully laid plan, multiple worst-case scenarios, a full will and Lestrade's blessing, but this waiting was excruciating for them both. So they watched bad telly and snuggled before John fell asleep, and Sherlock would run for hours and hours, until he was breathless and dripping with sweat, because he could think of nothing better to do.

One night, when Sherlock had showered and slid into bed beside his flatmate, John suddenly rolled over with difficulty to stare Sherlock in the face. The detective responded by resting his fingers along John's cheek, running the pad of his thumb around the doctor's jawline. It was noticeably sharper than when they had met, and Sherlock sighed. It was no use mentioning it to John; he already knew how bad he looked from the glances he snuck in when Sherlock gave him his sponge baths.

John's voice was surprisingly, achingly steady as he spoke. "You know, I had great plans for us."

"Is that so?" Sherlock whispered, running his finger along the perfect folds of John's ear.

"Mhmm."

"Do enlighten me."

"We were going to be forever. You and me, chasing the bad guys, solving the murders and bringing justice to this sick city. You and I… we were going to be legends."

"Don't be so sure that you won't be," Sherlock murmured, leaning in to kiss him on the temple.

"We, Sherlock. There is no me without you. We are two halves, Sherlock, don't you see? I would be nothing without you."

"And I will be nothing without you," he replied softly. "I promise you that."

"Don't."

"It's true. I promise you, it's true." Sherlock sat up slightly, pulling John into his lap so he could run his fingers through the mane of silvering hair. "I don't think I ever truly felt until I met you. Now I feel everything, I sense the whole world and their feelings. Before it was just clinical: they did this, there was a logical reason. But now I can understand the fits of passion and the rage and the pain and the loss and the energy of it, John. That's what you gave me. You schooled me in the art of emotions.

"And I don't know if I will be able to continue that when you're gone. I don't know if I'll be able to do much of anything. I think we were destined to meet because you would teach me that there is more in this world than just motive and reason; there is a whole universe of feeling that I never thought to see. And that's going to be taken from me when you're taken from me. I don't know if I'll survive that."

"You have to, Sherlock," John replied simply. "London needs you. The world needs you."

"But I need you," the detective insisted, struggling to control the tremor in his voice.

"You'll find a way," John said soothingly. "You always do."

They sat in silence for a few more moments, Sherlock absentmindedly petting the doctor's hair, when John suddenly asked, "Will it hurt, dying? Will I feel it?"

"The way that we have planned it, no. It will be quick and, for the most part, painless. It will be like the first breath you took as a child, in reverse: strange, foreign, perhaps uncomfortable, but not painful." Sherlock tiredly wondered when he became so poetic.

"I just don't want to be alone. I know I have to, but. . . I wish you could be there for me."

"I know." Sherlock ducked his head, willing his eyes to dry. "But I assure you, I will be watching every single minute, and if it seems that you might be in pain, I will come in and give you a painkiller so that it won't hurt. I promise you."

John struggled to sit up slightly, an edge coming to his voice. Sherlock recognized it as the voice he used when he was worried that the detective was in danger or hurt. "But you won't put yourself in harm's way?"

"No. I will respect your wishes on that matter."

John relaxed again, sinking back into Sherlock's lap like a sleepy kitten. His voice began to lose its clarity, sinking back into the slurred 'John-speak' that Sherlock had become accustomed to. "I'm afraid. I don't want to leave you."

"I don't want you to leave. But we cannot change what's happening any more than I can go back and bring murder victims to life. But I want you to know that I will miss you more than life itself. I promise you."

John nodded sleepily, his eyelids drooping closed. "I love you," he mumbled softly.

Sherlock felt a catch in his throat and he idly wondered if he could choke on emotion. He shook the thought away and gently moved the sleeping doctor from his lap, rising to go back to the living room and run his tears away.


	5. Chapter 5

The time had come, John and Sherlock decided. They had said their goodbyes to each other so many times over the past three months – goodbyes with their bodies as they held each other tightly, goodbyes with their eyes as they stared at each other across the room, goodbye with their words as they finally told each other what they had meant to say – that drawing out John's inevitable death any longer seemed an irresponsible cruelness.

Mycroft had helped them track down Moriarty using his vast and inexhaustible resources, and Lestrade had offered them manpower in case it was necessary. John, using the final vestiges of his military training, had been able to fashion the actual device: a tiny pressure mat taped inside the canal of his left ear, blocking out most of his hearing on that side, which was wired to several explosives strapped to his body. All John had to do was poke at his ear and he was finished. And Sherlock, wily as he was, had been the one to draw Moriarty into their game.

Sherlock now sat outside of 221B Baker Street in an armored car, along with the doctor. He was holding both of John's hands in order to keep him from accidentally triggering the device, and John, in turn, had rested his head (right ear down) on Sherlock's shoulder: both for comfort as well as to cause the least disruption to the IED.

Anthea, in the passenger's seat, was clicking away on her cell phone, doubtless giving a play-by-play account to her boss, and the cabbie was merely waiting for the signal to go. Sherlock looked impassive, stroking John's hands as one would a lap blanket or a particularly soft T-shirt, and John was in a half-doze, murmuring softly to himself as he was wont to do. Words no longer seemed necessary; they both knew that this was, finally and completely, goodbye.

It was a very risky procedure, they both knew. Sherlock had left clues for Moriarty on his website, including the latitude and longitude of the chosen meeting place, but there was no guarantee that Moriarty would take their word for it or even show up. He could easily booby-trap their transport vehicle or bomb their apartment while they were away. The limit to Moriarty's cruelty existed only in their imaginations.

But Moriarty, Sherlock knew, felt there was a limit to their bravery. He would never suspect Sherlock would wire his best friend and colleague up as a human bomb, regardless of the frail condition of John's health. That was a limit that Moriarty would never consider Sherlock reaching – but here they were, about to hurtle the good doctor to a fiery death in the name of apparent justice.

But what was the justice in this? Sherlock had spent many nights soaked in sweat, jogging endlessly as if he could run himself to a solution or exhaust himself into a sort of easy peace. There was no happy ending without the deepest, most soul-shattering tragedy he could imagine taking place first. John and Sherlock – they would have no happy ending in this. Only London, and its sleepy, insipid citizens, would have the satisfaction of that. Looking down at the striking face of the man he knew so well, but yet barely knew at all, he knew that logically his death was for the best, and he was going nobly, selflessly. But the selfish lizard-brain inside of him wanted to call it all off, carry John home and drift off to sleep holding the one he loved, even if it meant burning London to the ground. Moriarty knew he would not choose his own happiness over the fate of an entire city – but he didn't know just how far Sherlock would go to determine that fate for himself.

The cabbie revved the engine and they were off, driving silently through the tangled streets of the town that Sherlock knew so well. The car was enveloped in a sticky sort of quiet, the kind that makes it hurt to even breathe. The only sound was Anthea's incessant texting, and the wheezy, labored gasping of John. To while the time and to keep his mind off the horror gnawing at its borders, Sherlock spent the drive mapping out different routes to the abandoned warehouse he had chosen at the edge of town.

When this didn't suffice, Sherlock carefully lifted John from his shoulder to talk to him. He looked the doctor in the eyes, seeing the resignation there –he had to look away.

"John. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"What would be the point of me dying otherwise? I can either wallow in bedpans and Depends, or I can go out in a blaze of glory. Which would you choose?"

"We both know the answer to that."

"And my answer is the same."

"Very well."

"You know I will miss you," John said quietly. He was drawing up every last bit of strength he had, and his voice sounded surprisingly stable. "And you know that I'm afraid."

"I know. And I will miss you too. But the world will be in good hands, I promise. Dimmock has turned out to be less of an idiot than I suspected. Your Sarah is now in the head of the surgery, just got promoted last week. Lestrade is vying for the position of chief inspector, and after his role in this I should hope that he will get it with no argument. Molly found a nice boy from the Neurology department and they've been together nearly a month now – which is huge in her terms." Sherlock paused for breath, resting his lips against John's cheek in a reverent manner. "I'm not saying that we will move on and forget you. But life will go on. And we were all richer for knowing you. It will hurt, but they will remember you fondly whenever they can."

"And you?"

"I will be half a Holmes," Sherlock said quietly. "And I don't know if I will be able to endure it. But I will try, for your sake."

"Thank you."

"And I will never, _ever_ forget you. Couldn't if I tried."

The car stopped then, Anthea announcing they were there. John brought a tremulous hand up to Sherlock's face, stroking as gently as he could, and he leaned in to kiss him. Sherlock responded carefully, moving his hands to John's arms, and they moved softly against each other for a moment, until John pulled away.

"I love you," he said quietly, resting his forehead against Sherlock's.

"Don't," Sherlock replied, his voice quaking.

John smiled sadly as Anthea came around to help him out of the car. Sherlock merely sat there, reaching out one more time to squeeze John's hand, and then the doctor was limping away, holding his cane tightly – the bravest doctor Sherlock had ever met, or ever would.

Moriarty was waiting, a sick smile overtaking his face. "So the pet comes without the master! How does Sherry feel about that, hmm?"

John merely grunted, watching the criminal mastermind with the closet expression to hatred he could muster. He inched a little closer as Moriarty watched his crippled shuffle with a look of pure delight.

"Well come on, puppy, tell me where your owner is. Waiting outside? He just lets you do his dirty work so he doesn't get any grime under his fingernails? How petty. Don't you feel in the least bit … invalidated, Doctor John Watson? Your genius wasted under the thumb of the sociopath?"

John allowed himself one tight, gloating smile. "Not at all," he said, and then he jammed his finger into his left ear as deep as he could.

The resulting explosion blew all of the windows out of the warehouse and encompassed the entire building in flames reaching a dozen feet into the sky. Shrapnel flew toward the car, rocking it from side to side, and Sherlock merely buried his head in his knees and wept silently. His best friend, colleague, flatmate – he even considered the term _soulmate_ and found it apt – was gone in a blaze of fire and shrapnel. A true hero.

Lestrade arrived on the scene a few minutes later, his team rushing in to put out the flames and take a body count.

Two perfect piles of ash lay next to each other in the main room of the warehouse, identifiable only by charred bones, a battered and pocked steel cane, and one small Wedgewood button. His men were just gathering samples of the bones for testing when Sherlock rushed in, running to Lestrade.

"Make sure it's him," Sherlock said, his eyes wild. "I don't care how much testing you have to do. You _have_ to make sure it's Moriarty. I would never forgive myself. Make sure it's him."

"We'll do our best, Sherlock," Lestrade said evenly. "Go home. Get some rest. You shouldn't be here right now."

"I don't know if I'll ever sleep again," Sherlock replied curtly. "Do you have an extra nicotine patch?"


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock went home, as Lestrade suggested, but he could not sleep. The flat felt so deeply, bone-jarringly silent that it made even thinking difficult, much less the complicated process that a body undergoes to fall asleep. So he wandered about, looking at each object, each little knickknack that had somehow been made completely, irreversibly different by John's presence and death. The whole place, the rooms and their belongings, felt soaked in his essence, as if he had been ether bottled up in flesh, and now that he had passed away, the spirit had permeated each thing he had touched.

He felt the tears coming, hot and fluid underneath his lashes: now that there was no pretense to maintain, no stoicism to cling to, he let them fall where they may. He brushed his fingers along all the places that John had touched and felt his scarf becoming moist with the saline dripping from his eyes.

As he moved along the living room, he came to John's red laptop, sitting beside his chair. It had been unused in the months leading up to his death; they had agreed that there was no point in maintaining the blog, and John had begun to lose the motor skills necessary to type quite quickly. However, Sherlock felt the need to check John's email and inform distant relatives and acquaintances of his passing. It seemed only appropriate to do this one last kindness to John's memory.

He logged on quickly, as the password had not changed since the first time he had hacked the computer: his password was "Doctor Goo", the nickname he had been given in the Army because of his love for fruit preserves. Sherlock smiled a little, glittering through his tears, at the thought of battle-hardened warriors calling out the ridiculous nickname across a windswept Afghani compound. Holmes felt it was appropriate, given John's incredible ability to turn his heart to mush with the simplest look or word.

And all of that was gone now.

Swallowing hard, Sherlock looked across the desktop, noting that John had been working on a Word document when he shut down the computer for the last time. Curious, he opened it, only to find it was a letter. To him.

_Sherlock,_

_I have no doubt that you will go snooping through my laptop after I die. Perhaps before, given how impatient you are. So I thought it would be a good idea to leave you something of all the things that I would have wanted to say, but didn't, or couldn't. Here goes._

_I am pretty sure I knew that I loved you the first moment I stepped into that lab room at St. Bart's. You were just such a mystery that it was impossible not to want to get to know you and figure out who you are. My feelings intensified with each mission that we went on and each mystery we solved, and I always wanted to know you even more than I already did._

_I used to wonder if it was possible to ever really love anyone more than you love yourself, and I found that out when I realized that I loved you. I would do anything for you: hell, I almost blew myself up to save you from Moriarty. And that's why I want to end my life the way I will, so that I can save you and the rest of London from that madman. I never want to see you come to any harm and I hope, in these last few months, that I never will. That is my only wish in the world: that you will be happy and safe and never bored for the rest of your life._

_I don't want you to mourn me when I'm gone. It would be nice for you to miss me, but I don't want my passing to destroy your life. (I'm a little cocky, aren't I? I apologize.) I know I've made a big impact – Lestrade and Mycroft and everyone else has said so, or I wouldn't believe it – but I don't want this to be the end of your amazing, fantastic, brilliant career. I want you to go on solving crimes and saving lives forever, even if it's someone else standing by your side, someone else sharing 221B Baker Street with you and listening to you talk so that you don't look quite so crazy. Of course the idea makes me jealous beyond belief, but I guess I will just have to make peace with that._

_Please never forget that I love you, crazy incredible mad sociopath that you are, and that you were the best thing to ever happen to me. I don't know where I would be if I hadn't met you and learned that life was too short to be bored, and that time was too precious to be anything but magnificent._

_I know you told me once not to make people into heroes. But you, Sherlock, are and always will be my hero, and an unknown hero to all of London. Under that cold brave exterior is the heart of a lion, the soul of a warrior and the mind of a genius. I respect and admire you with all my heart, and I hope someday that the rest of the world will be able to see you like I do. Until then, keep your head up. Don't let the naysayers tell you that you're not magnificent. For me._

_All my love,_

_Doctor John H. Watson._

Sherlock impatiently wiped at his eyes, shutting the laptop with a snap. He laced his fingers together and buried his head inside them, breathing deeply. The document had been dated only a few days after John had been diagnosed according to his medical records: that the doctor had sat up late at night, crafting such an emotional letter to the cold and, plainly, heartless man he shared a flat with was staggering beyond measure to the detective. He could never imagine doing such a kind thing for someone else – unless that someone were John.

_Ah_, thought Sherlock._ There is the crux of this saga._ The two of them, inseparable, would do things for each other that they would not fathom doing for anyone else. Watson had not even told his sister that he was ill, not wanting her to worry, but he had also left her nearly nothing in his will or, Sherlock realized, even spoken to her in the past few months, as if he wanted to make himself as small in her memory as possible. But for him – and for him alone – John had written letters, endured four months of misery and, in the end, blown himself up. The idea was breathtaking: a grown man suffering and sacrificing for another man he had known for only two years, but practically disregarding his sister.

And it was true that the majority of John's relatives had been disregarded. The doctor had left nearly everything to Sherlock in his will: he'd reasoned quietly that Sherlock was the one who would need guns and medical equipment and case notes and laptops, not his sister or cousins. But Sherlock knew that was not quite the point. John had wanted to leave Sherlock things to remember him by, to ground him in what had been before he made any headstrong decisions about the future. John was not a sentimental man, Sherlock knew, and he had little by the way of personal belongings. But the things he had – they were special. And to leave them to Sherlock implied he was entrusting the detective with his memory, all that would remain of him when he returned to dust. A trust that was unbreakable, deeper than the human mind could fathom, and enduring long beyond death. It unnerved Sherlock, truly, but it also touched his heart in a place that he knew no other man would ever be able to reach. For the second time in three months, Sherlock thanked the gods that John was one of a kind, because meeting another man like him would destroy the detective completely.

John's funeral was quiet but well attended. Lestrade and the majority of Scotland Yard was there, making Sherlock wonder who was guarding and city, and if anyone even noticed that the bobbies were absent.

Lestrade walked quietly up to the detective, touched his shoulder gently, and then walked away. It seemed fitting, and Sherlock nodded. There was no need for theatrics.

Harry Watson was also in attendance, haven been shoved roughly off the wagon by her brother's death. Her face was bloated with intoxication and tearful as she clung to Sherlock, weeping stolidly about how much she missed her brother. Holmes endured the unwanted attention stoically, until she began to blow her nose on his treasured scarf; then she was firmly pushed away, into the arms of a surprised Anthea.

Mycroft walked up to Sherlock and murmured softly, "The lab reports returned. Your surveillance level has been lowered to 4." Both brothers nodded; it was a confirmation that Moriarty's terror was over, and Sherlock could return to his work relatively unhindered by the psychotic man who so closely matched his intellect. Somehow, the conclusion to the saga seemed anticlimactic, unfair. He thought he would be happy, beaming at his victory, but he only felt empty inside. The price had been much too steep for the death of one madman. He had traded in his soul for justice, and he'd do anything to rescind his offer.

Mrs. Hudson found Sherlock as well, and wrapped him in a warm and comforting hug, the kind that only she could deliver. "Let me know if you need any help tidying up the flat," she said. "And don't worry about his portion of the rent."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied stiffly, patting her gently on the back.

The priest began to speak when everyone had been seated. Sherlock noted suddenly that he'd been ushered to the front row, the position usually reserved for close family and friends. Only Harry sat beside him. Sherlock assumed this was because other than his sister, John had had no one in the world beyond Sherlock. The detective had truly become John's family. The thought made him a little dizzy with emotion.

Sherlock had been asked to speak, and he did so, standing up stiffly in his black suit and customary scarf. He shuffled his notes, looking at them carefully, and realized that he couldn't decipher a damn piece of them – it was as if they were in a foreign language. Clearing his throat, he decided that grief was making him delusional, flipped the notes upside down, and spoke from his heart.

"When I first met John Watson, I knew in an instant that there was something about him that made him different from every Army doctor, every ex-soldier or surgeon I'd ever met. He was special in a way that few men are. He was a true hero, born for greatness and self-sacrifice in the noblest form. Brave, loyal, honest, loving, kind, patient, and above all deeply empathic. I couldn't have asked for a better assistant," Sherlock took a deep breath, willing himself not to stutter, "or a better friend.

"We solved many cases together in the two years that we were a detective team. He risked his life for me many times, and I for him. But there was something about him that transcended mere good chemistry and intellectual compatibility. It was as if we knew each other, heart and soul. He could sense my irritation and would do anything to combat it, and I always recognized his emotions before he mentioned them. He was the first person to teach me how to truly feel, and I will be forever in his debt for that lesson. He has made me a better man and a better detective. He made me a hero in his eyes and forced me to live up to that image, every single day. Sometimes I could become resentful of the pressure, but I see now that it is that unshakeable faith he had in me that compelled me to work harder at being a better man instead of just a better detective.

"I told a colleague once," Sherlock looked over to Lestrade, who nodded slightly, "that I didn't believe it was possible to truly know a person unless you were that person. I was ignorant and wrong." Sally Donovan and Mrs. Hudson smiled a little through their tears; Sherlock admitting he had been wrong was a rare occurrence indeed. "I knew John Watson, every piece of his heart and his mind and soul, even if I didn't realize it. I knew that he was more courageous than any man I had ever met. I knew that even though he was afraid, he walked bravely to his death with his head held high. I knew that he had a deep affection for his family, and that he trusted me completely. And I . . . " Sherlock paused for a minute, to compose himself. "I know that he loved me, and that if a fragment of his consciousness remains, in whatever form that may be, he loves me still. And I will cherish that fact forever.

"I have been told that it is customary for grieving loved ones to say that the deceased would not have wanted us to grieve. In John's case, I feel that is true. But he would want us to be happy that he could save us, and that his dying wish of protecting London has been fulfilled. We can do honor to his memory by keeping that wish alive every day, saving the citizens of this dreary city from the madmen that would do injustice within its walls. Thank you." Sherlock realized with a start that tears were dripping down his face, and he wiped them away as he left the pulpit.

John's grave site was simple and modest, like the man whose cremains it contained. Sherlock stood beside it long after the rest of the mourners had gone, looking carefully at the headstone, memorizing its dates and epitaph, when suddenly he felt a vibration in his pocket. Curious, he pulled out his phone and checked his messages. His stomach dropped and his skin felt cold, colder than the corpses he spent so much time with.

"_The game isn't over, sexy. It's just begun. – M xxx_"

Leaning down to the headstone, he pressed a kiss to its cold contours, and with that, he was gone, running through the cemetery and hailing a cab.

_John would have wanted it this way_, he reasoned. _And that's how it will be. _


End file.
